Chapter 5: Wedding Night Blues

June 9, 1971

Dear Diary: Do I ever have some hot news to write about!! No longer am I Miss Polly Oliver! It's Mrs. Harold Himmler from now on, or at least for the time being. And, even bigger news, Wally Baxter called from Los Angeles and said he may have something for me!!!

Well, first things first. How'd I ever get hitched up with old Weird Harold? It wasn't easy, really. As you probably gathered, he and I had a pretty strange relationship. But that was only because I couldn't stand the sight of him.

Anyway, it seemed the worse I treated him, the better football he played. Last season, his final season as a senior, he went absolutely wild on the playing field. God! Could that dude ever break bones! I swear, you could hear the knees knocking together in the offensive back-field all the way up in the stands when Weird Harold took the field. There was talk about outlawing him because of unsportsman-like conduct, but then he got nominated for All-City, All-League, All-National teams and the protests kind of blew away. His last home game he fractured a line judge's spine when he disagreed with a close call. The local paper, the 'Langousta Times-Crier', said the judge deserved what he got.

It was kind of sickening watching the big ape go berserk for old Langousta High, knowing as I did, what a total wimp he was off the field. It was pathetic, too, how pleased he was that college and pro scouts were calling him up all the time, trying to get him to sign up. I never even paid his career the slightest bit of attention, not until the night the Rams made him a solid offer.

Talk about keyed up! Old Harold was really feeling his oats after the big phone call, let me tell you. We'd had this date to go to the Drive-In and when I saw him like that, right away I told him I had a headache and didn't want to go.

That brought the moron down in a hurry. I let him wheedle and whine for fifteen minutes straight before I consented to accompany him. Mom said for us to have a good time. What a laugh! The Drive- In was playing a double bill of "Deep Throat" and a real sleeper, "Teen-Meat Orgies." Just Mom's cup of tea.

Well, Linda was just starting to do her thing when Harold, unable to control his joy any longer, burst out and told me about the Rams. I sat there and stared at him like he was an insect. But, for once he was oblivious. Bouncing up and down on the seat like a ten-year-old kid.

I got this urge, you know, to really lay it on him, make him push a pizza around the parking lot with his nose or something. "That's wonderful, Harold!" I cried in my best Annette Funicello voice, scooting over next to him in the seat.

The bozo was so goofy he didn't even notice. He acted like it was only natural that I'd warm up to him, the soon to be famous football star. Dog-shit! I nuzzled my tits up against his huge chest and nibbled at his hairy ear lobe.

"Oooh! That Linda sure can suck!" I groaned in his ear.

"Uhh... yeah," he said, looking up at the screen and seeing it for the first time. Moist lips were diving down over arching pink cock.

I squeezed his tit muscles. "Hey, Harold... how'd... how'd you like me to do that to you?"

"Huh?" he said, totally stunned, his ears burning red against my lips.

I groped his coiled fire-hose of a cock.

"Ooh..." he groaned.

"Wouldn't you like me to suck it a little bit?" I cooed.

"Uhh... gee, Pol..." he said, knowing full well that he was treading on uncertain ground, that my mercurial temperament could, at any second, turn cold and unwilling. "Do you really want to?"

I kneaded his prick into life. It surged down his pants-leg and throbbed against his thigh.

"You don't want me to see it!" I pouted, letting go of his huge cock-head.

"Uhh... no, that's not it at all, Pol," he stammered, clawing at his fly with both hands. "Here... see!"

He yanked the stiff joint from his crotch, waving it about for me to see. Goddamn! Was he ever hung! Like a gorilla for real. The head looked like a boa constrictor's, wide and flat and oozing creamy stuff from the slot. His shaft was pink and thick and unused looking, like a baby's, only huge and swollen. The up- curving shaft stuck lewdly from his fly; the hot bulb bobbed an inch or two from the steering wheel's horn button. It made my jaws ache just to look at that thing.

"Can I touch it?" I asked in the husky tones of Annette.

"Wow, sure, Pol!" he exclaimed, kind of scooting over closer to me.

I reached out and took it in my hand. The bozo shut his pig eyes and clenched his teeth. "It's so hot!" I squealed in delight, giving it a quick flip through my fist.

"Ooh, God!" Harold moaned, unable to keep his hips from shifting.

I worked my thumb over the velvety folds of his nerve bundle, making him really start to squirm. "Do you like that?" I asked in mock astonishment.

"Wow, YES!" he cried.

I gave him a few more long, wringing strokes. By the time I was done, I had the cretin wheezing and his pre-come was dribbling down over the back of my hand.

"I've never done this before..." I lied apologetically, "so if I do something wrong, you'll tell me, won't you?"

Harold, his beetle brow sweating, upper lip curled back from his teeth, nostrils flared, just nodded vigorously. His big paw of a hand came down on the back of my head and pressed hard, forcing my mouth in the general direction of his cock-head. That pissed me off no end, so after making a big deal of moaning and groaning while I brushed his velvety dome against my lips, I opened my mouth, took his prick cap inside and bit down on it hard. I mean chomped!

You should've seen that ape sit up straight! Like someone had slipped him an electric enema. His pig eyes were clamped shut and his face was all screwed up with pain but he didn't dare complain for fear I'd change my mind and let go of his tumescent dick.

"Does that hurt?" I asked through clenched teeth, shaking my head like terrier with a rat!

He couldn't speak. He just shook his head "no." His hands were strangling the steering wheel.

His pre-come didn't taste too bad, not as good as doggy spunk, but I'd had worse from Wally Baxter. I decided to get the show on the road. I let go of his dick head and looked up at the screen, sliding the shaft through both my hands. "Let's see... uhh, yeah," I said, pretending to take a lesson from the ascended mistress of cock-sucking. "Well, here goes nothing..." I said.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could and let my drooling tongue lash over his pud-cap and nerve bundle, lubricating the way for my throat. Then I took him in. And I mean TOOK. Like a pro, a fifty-year-old hooker. I shoved the head past the back of my tongue and swallowed him whole. My lips dove down over his shaft, clear to the coarse hairs at the gross root. I didn't gag once!!

Then I let it all slide out from between my tightly closed lips. "How was that?" I asked breathlessly.

"Ohgodohgodohgod..." Harold mumbled. Before he could collect his thoughts. I swallowed him again, twisting throat about his shaft, making tongue vibrate against his balls.

His orgasm was on its way. I could feel the tell-tale shifting motion of his nuts, the flexing of his dick tendons. Giving him one more juicy thrust for good measure, I tore his already wriggling cock from my mouth and held it aimed straight up.

"Uhnff! Uhnff!" Harold snorted, eyes shut, hips snapping, cock spitting white strands of splooie almost high enough to touch the head-liner.

That goon could really send up a gusher! Hot sperm flopped all over his original equipment wood steering wheel and dash board, obliterating the odometer, the speedometer, the oil pressure and generator gauges. Long, ropy streamers of the stuff clung to the windshield and turn signal lever, to the knobs on the radio and the rear view mirror.

Weird Harold snuffled and quivered for the longest time, deep in a joyous swoon. When he finally came around and looked at the awful mess he'd made of his car's interior, and his still flexing cock in my hot little hand, he moaned and mumbled something I couldn't quite make out. "How's that, Harold?" I said loudly.

"M-marry me, Pol. Please!" he croaked, flinching like a gutless puppy.

"Let me think about it," I said, surprising myself even more than poor Weird Harold. "Why don't you mop up this... mess? I have to go to the ladies' room," I informed him, showing him a glistening gob of pearly squirt nestled between my first and second knuckles. I held my hand far away from my body as I slid out of the car, as if the goop were something not only perfectly hideous, but alive as well.

I didn't give him my answer that night. I had to talk to Tara first. I stalled the bozo without any trouble, changing the subject and stimulating his interest at the same time by asking him how I compared to Linda Lovelace.

The dumb asshole really started blushing then, but he had the gall to ask: "Wow, how was it for you, Pol?"

"I nearly puked," I told him. "Don't you ever wash that thing?"

That put the bastard in his place.

Tara and I had our pow-wow the next morning before school. I told her what'd happened and when she stopped laughing she said, "Marry the creep!"

I figured my old pal had been hitting the aerosol spray for breakfast. "You're not serious," I said.

"Shit, yes, I am!" she exclaimed. Her blue eyes looked more alive than they had in weeks. The freon propelled aerosol shortening she'd been snorting really put a glaze on her peepers. I swear you could fry fish on her corneas.

"What're your plans for the future?" she demanded.

"You know... modeling, Hollywood," I told her.

"And what's a little marriage to a rich real estate broker's son gonna hurt any of that? Huh? You tell me."

"God!" I said, "You are serious!"

"Sure!" Tara put an arm around my shoulders. "Think about it, Polly. All his daddy's money... and when you get the itch to move on, guess what?"

"Divorce."

"Yasss, yasss, and alimony, baby," she chortled. "It can't hurt your career to be momentarily married to a great violent bullock of a football star... not with the TV coverage he's going to be getting in the fall... Monday Night Football, Howard Cosell, Frank Gifford..."

"Jesus! But I'd have to sleep with it!!" I cried, shaking my fists in her face.

That seemed to take some of the wind out of her sails. Then she was beaming again. "According to state law, sweet-cheeks, you'd only have to do it once..."

Suddenly it didn't seem so bad. I mean, it didn't seem good, but the idea didn't make me gag like at first. I looked at Tara and grinned, "I'll ask the folks."

I needn't write anything about how my Mom felt about the proposal. I think the shock of it was what killed my Pop. He was too stunned to even put up a show of protest.

So, Dear Diary, I guess I was destined to be a teenage bride. The Bride of Frankenstein. Weird Harold and I had one hell of a wedding, though. His dad got a special deal on the upper floor of a funeral home over on Ardmore, the Little Chapel of the Burnished Prawn. What with all the limousines pulling up in front, it looked like a Mafia chieftain had bitten his last linguini. The booze and food were great. Jack-in-the-Box did the catering, along with Cut- Rate Likkers.

My Mom ran around like a chicken with its head chopped off, shouting, "Isn't it wonderful? I'm so happy!" to no one in particular. My Pop stood in a corner, getting stiff-ass drunk, his face kind of olive green. Mr. Himmler, the land baron, was a squat barrel of a man in an orange and blue plaid sports coat, maroon bell-bottom slacks, white leather shoes with lots of tiny pin holes in them. For a wedding present he gave us a five bedroom, split level home over in the creek development. Mrs. Himmler looked like the mummy unwrapped. Pasty pale face, hideous auburn flip wig. The only time a life-like expression came over her sour puss was when her hubby jumped up on the buffet banquet table, and started singing "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah" while dancing and making his toupee swivel round and round on his head. The expression was one of pure horror.

About half way through the actual ceremony, the L.S.D. tab I'd taken for a pick-me-up started letting-me-down. And I began to get antsy about the 'culmination of the contract', or in plain English, Harold's big pud in my twat. I'd told myself long ago that I'd never let him get a piece of my ass and I hated like hell to go back on that solemn promise. I remember looking up at the giant asshole as he mumbled the sacred oath. He looked like a cartoon gorilla in that tuxedo, all sloppy drunk and it was barely one in the afternoon.

While the ceremony was interrupted briefly for my Mom to rush in and mop up my husband-to-be's drooling chin ("Isn't it wonderful?"), I looked back to my bride's maid for moral support.

The lewd wink Tara gave me helped get me past the official mumbo jumbo. Then it was time for more drinky-poo, and scads of Jack Tacos and onion rings, and then the wedding pictures. I didn't get a chance to talk to her until most of the guests had staggered out, stumbled into their cars, and roared off towards the nearest freeway on-ramp.

"You look great!" Tara cried, real tears running down her apple cheeks. It was hard as hell taking a piss in that wedding gown, let me tell you. "Uh-huh," I said, trying to keep my veil dry.